


Readjustment

by Denizen_of_Dreamland



Category: unOrdinary (Webcomic)
Genre: #StayHomeWriMo, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dissociation, Gen, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Psychological Trauma, Self-Hatred, Solitary Confinement, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Denizen_of_Dreamland/pseuds/Denizen_of_Dreamland
Summary: All John could think about these days was how much it hurt.The weak arms. The bleeding nose. The bruised face. The suffocating feeling in his chest. The ring of pain around his wrists, caused by the sheer weight of the stone handcuffs.Funny thing was, he didn’t remember what not being hurt was like.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 154
Collections: RandomFanfictionsE.g.Anime_2BeRead





	Readjustment

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is based on the #StayHomeWriMo writing prompt for the first day: “Write about a character who’s stuck inside. How do they feel about it? Why are they there?”

All John could think about these days was how much it hurt.

The weak arms. The bleeding nose. The bruised face. The suffocating feeling in his chest. The ring of pain around his wrists, caused by the sheer weight of the stone handcuffs.

Funny thing was, he didn’t remember what not being hurt was like. He didn’t remember what it was like to be a regular high school student, studying for his exams, hanging out with his friends, and going out for ice cream on a nice sunny day. He didn’t remember what being the King was like, either.

He could only faintly remember the encouraging voice of his father.

He felt like a shell of a person. A shadow of someone (not him) who was once alive. He was an observer to his own tragedies, a bystander to his own pain, a sitting corpse that breathed, reacted, and, sometimes, even talked on instinct.

~~If he could choose to stop breathing, he would.~~

At first, he used to think a lot about how much time had passed and how much time was left. He wondered when he’d be able to go out, how his father would react, how he would feel, going back to his home and trying to readjust to life without handcuffs tying his hands together, without being left alone inside a dark, empty room, without getting yelled at and beat up day after day after day.

But not anymore.

The days were all blurred together. He couldn’t tell day from night, so he couldn’t tell one day from another either. That damned cop always said he’d return the next day--but how could he be sure he was keeping his word? Even if he was, John didn’t bother counting the times he said that.

All he knew was that he was sitting there, in front of a table, waiting in silence. The cop came in and went out. Regularly? Maybe not. It didn’t feel like it, but maybe it was. Sometimes they brought him food, and he ate it. Sometimes it felt like they were taking too long to feed him, but he never got worried. He never felt hungry anyways. The rest of his body hurt too much to focus on something unimportant like that.

~~Every once in a while, he wished they would forget to bring him food. Then he wouldn’t have to eat.~~

It was all like one single long, tortuous day. He wanted it to end, but there was nothing he could do. Maybe it would never end, and he would be stuck here forever. Maybe it’d end soon, but the word “soon” had lost its meaning, so John didn’t know how to feel about that.

He couldn’t remember how long “three months” was, either.

But none of that mattered when he still didn’t even understand why he was here to begin with. All he had done was what those higher tiers always did.

_ What they did to him. _

It’s what all of them did. It’s what everyone did. The strong ruled over the weak, the lucky stepped over the average, the powerful got away with all kinds of shit. That was just how society worked.

Why was it wrong only if  _ he _ was the one doing it?

Was there something he wasn’t getting? Some kind of logic his brain just couldn’t grasp?

Maybe he was just stupid. Maybe he had made a mistake that was obvious to everyone else, but he couldn’t understand because he was fucked up. Maybe that was what that cop wanted to drill into him.

That something about John was… well, fundamentally wrong.

That his ability was a mistake.

That  _ he _ was a mistake.

That everyone would be better off without him.

And he was right. John should be dead.

They should’ve shot him down at the school, before he could do the things he did. Before he could tear his world down to pieces. Before he could show how much of a monster he really was.

His classmates, his teachers, the authorities... If someone--anyone--had gotten rid of John before any of that had happened…

No one would’ve had to get hurt.

Even now, when he couldn’t take back his actions, all the trouble that the school went through was his fault. Even now, in solitary confinement, his punishment was unfair to Claire, to Adrion, to all of his classmates, who surely wanted him dead. Even now, he was a burden to his father, who probably didn’t want to see him anyways.

Of course. Who would want a child like John?

Who the hell would want to put up with someone like John?

He was a monster.

Worthless.

Useless. 

Broken beyond repair.

He had ruined his life in a matter of months, and he’d never be able to put the pieces back together again. He had ruined the lives of everyone around him, and they’d never be able to forget, they’d never be able to recover from the shock. John had ruined himself and had brought everyone he cared about down with him. And just like his own pain,  _ their _ pain would never go away.

They’d been forced to put up with it.

It wasn’t their fault. They’d have to spend the rest of their lives with that pain buried deep within themselves, as a throbbing remainder of the bloodshed that had gone on at school when John had lost a hold of himself. And it wasn’t their fault. It was all John’s. He’d caused it. He had left a mark in all of them, one that he’d never be able to get rid of, no matter how hard he tried.

On second thought, this punishment was completely justified. He deserved being locked up, being alone, getting yelled at, getting beat up. He deserved all of it. He deserved much worse.

He didn’t deserve forgiveness from anyone, not even himself.

No.

_ Especially _ not himself.


End file.
